Mary Kaylene's Arc

Chapter 2 of 4

The smell hit her before the door clicked shut. Warm bread, vinegar, cheap mustard. Mary Kaylene froze on the edge of the bed, the lace biting her ribs. She heard the crinkle of a paper bag set on the counter. He had picked up sandwiches. He had decided dinner without her. She pulled a robe over the lace and walked out barefoot. Michael sat at the table, wheels parked sideways, already unwrapping his half. The paper bag slumped between them like a verdict. "I made plans," she said. Her voice came out smaller than she wanted. He looked up, chewing. "You didn't say." "I shouldn't have to say." He set the sandwich down. "Then say it now." She couldn't. The crown on the little plush dog was still upstairs. The necklace box was still closed. Saying it now meant performing it cold, under fluorescent kitchen light, with mustard on his thumb. She sat down across from him and took the other sandwich. The shower she'd taken an hour ago still cooled on her skin, droplets going to waste on a body nobody was going to see tonight. "It's fine," she said. He nodded once and went back to eating. The night she built collapsed quietly into a paper bag, and she chewed through it, already moving the line again.